- The very first sign of old age is remembering what
happened
when you were young. The second and last stage of old age, is when you
can't remember where you left your glasses.
-
- But one of the benefits of getting older is recalling
the very best things you experienced in your life. Those you rarely forget.
Sometimes, the best things that happened to you are the worst. The ones'
from which you learned something important. Something which otherwise,
you may never have learned.
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- One of the best things which happened in my life was
Richie Hamilton. I met Richie in the fourth grade. It was a parochial
school
taught by the Marist Brothers, an order of monks who made many a man out
of many a knucklehead. Like me.
-
- Richie sat next to me in Brother Francis Gerard's class.
Brother Francis came on like a tough old bird, but after about ten, maybe
eleven seconds, you came to realize that the tough aspect he presented
was merely a ploy, a screen with which to hide what was inside. A man who
cared for and loved his charges with a love that was beyond that which
even the best of teachers cough up.
-
- Brother Francis was our surrogate Mom's and Dad's all
rolled into one. When you had a cough, he complained for about ten minutes
before dispensing some cough mixture which tasted like poison but did the
job. If you were short (I was always the shortest guy in my class) he would
whip out a bench upon which you could place your little feet. His complaint
was that he couldn't stand your legs dangling in the wind. But his heart
spoke of your comfort, concentration so that we could learn without the
distraction on ourselves.
-
- Truth be known, Brother Francis Gerard was one of a kind.
Emphasis, please, on the word, 'kind'! The Marist Order was French and
Brother Gerard was French. He spoke with an accent which cold charm the
worst of us. At least I had an opportunity of telling him that before he
passed. Almost didn't make it.
-
- But to get back to Richie ... we became instant buddies.
All through grammar school and all through high school, we were
inseparable.
But I learned something when we graduated grammar school. The Fathers Club
was very active at the Mount (Mount St. Michael Academy). Most every month
there was a father and son communion breakfast. I never saw Richie's dad
at these breakfasts. "He's working," Richie would say. "He
always works." So Richie came along with me and my Dad. All the time.
Turns out that in order to send Richie to the Mount, he HAD to work three
jobs. That is called sacrifice. These days, the sacrifices are made still,
but in order to support a third car or a new flat screen digital TV. Screw
the kids.
-
- After breakfast, Richie would tag along home with me
to play ball and eat Sunday dinner at our house. He loved Sunday dinner
with us. My grandmother was the typical Sicilian gramma. Cooking for people
was her life and her family was her heart and soul. And Richie knew both
aspects of gramma. In fact, he'd say, "Gee, I wish I had a gramma
like yours. And I wish we had a big family like yours. Dad is always
working,"
he'd say. "He works three jobs, Post Office days, janitor nights and
on weekends he worked as a security guard at a church." Our
church.
-
- But at graduation, Richie's Dad showed up. He came
straight
from his job at the Post Office. All dressed up in his Sunday go to meetin'
Postal Uniform, the only suit he owned. Dress uniform by the way. Funny
thing was, his Dad was a Negro. I didn't know that. I also didn't know
that Richie was a Negro. Yes, his hair was kinky and curly. His other
features
were Negroid. But, frankly, I never noticed that. He was just ... Richie,
my best friend in the whole world. And Richie had to wear a shirt, tie
and jacket at school. It was the order of the day. He had many suits. His
Dad had one. His uniform. Seeing his Dad however, made me realize the fact
of Richie's blackness. Wasn't a shock or anything. Just sort of said to
myself, "Oh, Richie's a Negro!"
-
- In them days, Blacks were Negroes, not Blacks. No
biggie.
-
- But one of the guys in our class, a trouble maker and
a real nasty character, thought that in order to be human, you had to be
Irish. It's kind of funny, strange-funny, that people who hate the most,
hate themselves most of all. And this guy hated everyone.
-
- He came over to Richie, his Dad, me and my Dad, looked
squarely at Richie and said, "Hey, NIGGA!"
-
- Something inside me broke. I think it was my heart. That
anyone would, or even could, hate so much as to make a damned fool out
of himself whilst trying so hard to make a damned fool out of some other
guy. To embarrass himself so badly whilst in the process of trying to
embarrass
someone else.
-
- I snapped. I hauled off and socked this guy once, in
the face. I'd never done that before. Never. And immediately after I hit
him, I regretted it. I felt terrible for hurting this guy (whose name was
Gibbons), for embarrassing Dad, Richie and his Dad. Funny, I can't recall
Gibbons' first name; in part because at the Mount, everyone called everyone
by their last name. Except for people named 'Mortellaro.' I got called
Morty. It's easier to remember.
-
- I was not punished for what I did. In fact, Richie and
I grew closer. And so did our families. People who suffer together tend
to grow closer than those who are most content.
-
- Richie went on to a different college than I. And wound
up a State Trooper. He became my idol. In fact, I attended the police
academy
in a Westchester County town and was able to do what I loved to do, work
auxiliary. Although up in these here parts, you are a "reservist"
if you've attended the academy and serve as a police officer, not an
auxiliary
police officer.
-
- Richie was assigned duty in busting drugs and was very
good at it.
-
- One day Richie and I were in upstate New York when we
came upon a perp who we thought was on our list. Turns out he wasn't, but
he was selling drugs. Hard drugs like Horse and meth. We both recognized
this guy. I saw this perp pull out an automatic. Looked like a 9mm Glock
to me. It was like it was slow motion, or looking at a movie. Wasn't real.
Couldn't possibly be real. Yet it was so real that this perp shot Richie
in the face before I realized that it wasn't a movie or before Richie
realized
he had to go for his Glock. A Glock which he earned by being the top
graduate
in his class at the State Police Academy.
-
- I got one off. The perp whom we recognized was a man
named Gibbons. The same Gibbons who called Richie a nigga.
-
- Richie died in my arms. Every year about this time, I
take the shirt out with all the blood stains on it. I wash it. Then I have
a damned good cry for about an hour or so. Catharsis they call it. Guilt
may be another word.
-
- See, his kids, now all grown, are all my godchildren.
His wife, still good friends with our family. And me ... still weeping
after all these years. Yeah, first sign of old age. Remembering.
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- This one's for you Richie.
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- The reason I do what _I_ do is you.
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- Jim Mortellaro
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